


Heavy Crown

by Saturniidae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, The fic where Aziraphale is an angelic urban legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 06:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturniidae/pseuds/Saturniidae
Summary: Perhaps there are more angels on the side of humanity than they originally thought.





	Heavy Crown

**Author's Note:**

> A little musing sort of piece that came about with from a conversation with a friend after sharing a bit of a joke about an upcoming gag in my other fic where Aziraphale is "the weird aggro angel from Eden, don't go to the British Isles if you want to LIVE". Also I just wanted to write them being ridiculous, honestly.  
> Title from Grizfolk's Heavy Crown.  
> (9/4/19: Edited ever so slightly to be more in alignment with A Leisurely Stroll Down)

`Love will rise up indeed`  
`Done whispering and thinking loud`  
`Done blowing with the breeze`  
`Be the light in a cold, cold, cold world  
`

* * *

It was bound to happen sooner or later—the wayward agents of Heaven or Hell would find them, and then their blissfully mundane lives would be turned upside down again. 

A year and a half after they move into the cottage in South Downs, years after the (thankfully) botched apocalypse, they make a day trip to London to visit the Apple store and Aziraphale’s jeweler.[1]

It’s taken Crowley a good six weeks to fully win this particular argument, his victory only coming after one of the ladies from Aziraphale’s competitive trivia team introduced him to Ravelry. (That one stung, a bit, because he’d wheedled and whined about staying in touch for a good week before Aziraphale told him to shut up.)

(But that’s the way it goes. Crowley wins the phone standoff, Aziraphale wins on the paint color for the bedroom.[2] Crowley coaxes Aziraphale into more modern clothes, Aziraphale convinces Crowley to let him drive to trivia once in a blue moon. Give and take—only it never feels like taking, it simply feels like they’re infinite in their gifts to each other.)

Aziraphale makes a face as soon as they walk into the Covent Garden location, and it remains plastered to his face until Crowley kicks him out of the store so the angel’s radiating aura of disapproval would stop making the store clerks quit out of sudden moral fortitude.

Aziraphale goes to a cafe a few blocks away, orders himself a panini, something extremely cold, sugary, and caffeinated (complete with marshmallows on top!) and an espresso for Crowley. He settles himself outside, watching the people pass by with a quiet smile. He did so miss the bustle of London sometimes.

Within the half hour, Crowley comes sauntering up, waving a palm sized light blue mobile at Aziraphale.

“The manager _cried_ , angel,” he says, placing the phone down on the table. He turns his chair backwards and sprawls against the back, arms crossed. “Said she didn’t know why she was working for a company that utilizes sweatshop conditions, and decided she was going to throw her phone into the Thames.”

Aziraphale at least has the grace to look a bit mortified. “Sorry, I got a bit nervous,” he murmurs. “The whole set up… the store just reminded me a bit of how Heaven used to look in the nineties. I didn’t mean to make everyone unhappy.”

“I don’t disapprove, I think it’s funny,” Crowley says with a wink behind his dark lenses.

“Now I feel truly awful,” Aziraphale says dryly.

“You don’t,” Crowley laughs. “Besides, I set it all back to rights. They don’t even remember. Minor demonic miracle in action, no one’s going to be yelled at for at least a week. So. All’s fine there. And, you get a mobile out of it! Don’t set it on fire.”

“It’s… very…”

“New,” Crowley says. He nods, then reaches into the blindingly white bag and starts setting accessories down onto the table. “Here’s a protector for your screen, because we have to _pretend_ we’re worried about breaking it. And a case…”

Crowley makes a face and sets the case on the table, looking away as Aziraphale brightens.

“It’s tartan!”

“Plaid.”

“That’s tartan, dear boy.”

“‘S’all they had,” Crowley mutters, then grabs his espresso and downs it in one gulp.

“Sure thing,” Aziraphale replies. He reaches across the table and pats Crowley’s arm. “I’m sure it was.”

Crowley fixes a nasty sneer on his face and Aziraphale laughs at him.

“Yes, yes. You’re an incorrigible demon, who wouldn’t dare be thoughtful, how truly awful of you to tempt me into this sinful appliance. Apple indeed.”

“Bastard,” Crowley grouses, his lips softening into a fond grin.

“Ah, but I’m _your_ bastard,” Aziraphale says brightly. He scoops up the packaging for the case and opens it with a flick of his fingers. He pops it onto the phone, powers it on, and starts to set it up.

“D’you want me to do that?”

“I’ve got it,” Aziraphale says, typing with far more fluidity than Crowley would have expected. Aziraphale looks up and laughs at Crowley’s dumbfounded expression. “Just because I don’t particularly like them doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use them these days. I use yours while you’re sleeping.”

Crowley scoffs, his face bordering on sloppily fond. Aziraphale beams at him, warmth pooling up in his chest as love wells in him.

It’s an ever-present fondness, soft around the edges and well-worn, like corduroy worn to velvet by use. So when something sharp, a fiercer more curious admiration pierces their practiced bickering as Aziraphale snaps a picture of Crowley for his contact picture. It catches the moment of Crowley’s realization as well.

“That’s not good,” Aziraphale starts, then stops when Crowley gives a small shake of his head. “It won’t do for a picture, dearest. I’d like it if you smiled for once instead of making a silly face.”

Crowley snorts and pulls his own mobile from his pocket. “Time to update yours,” he drawls.

From afar, or, even to the couple the seat over, they look like the usual run of the mill, insufferably doting couple trying to take pictures of each other and the scenery.

 _That’s an angel_.

“I can see that,” Aziraphale says, eyes flicking up from the first text message he’s ever received. “Stop making faces, I’m trying to take a photograph of this marshmallow.”

“I’m putting this picture of you holding the mobile upside down on Twitter,” Crowley says blithely, thumbs swiping elegantly across his screen.

_That’s an angel and they’re coming over here._

“Oh!”

“Excuse me,” someone says.

Crowley and Aziraphale look up at the same time; Aziraphale jolts so violently he drops his mobile, then spends a good three seconds trying to fumble to catch it before pinching the corner between his fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” the someone says. They’re young, taking the appearance of a twenty-something vessel with close cropped violently purple hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and lip paint that matches their hair.

Nothing overtly marks them as an angel—save for their blindingly green eyes, they look like any youth who likes a particular subset of music and fashion: Ripped jeans and a white tee underneath a army-green jacket bedazzled with pins and patches. They raise their hands in apology, revealing a tattoo in the shape of a shield made of curved wings on the inside of their wrist.

“I didn’t mean to scare you! Um, wait, no, it’s—be not afraid! I am Saranel!” they declare, drawing themselves upright. They point. “And you, you’re the Principality Aziraphale!!”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, picking up his phone and tucking it into his blazer pocket as Crowley swings his legs to stand. “It was nice meeting you, we’re going now.”

“You really are Aziraphale?” Saranel asks, stepping closer to the table, hands still up as Aziraphale begins to studiously clear the table of trash. “Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate, the Disgraced?”

Aziraphale freezes, then fixes his gaze on the young angel, lips pursed. “Excuse you, I very much am still in possession of my grace,” he says coldly. “We would prefer you leave now, or else my dear companion will be very unhappy.”

Saranel takes a step back, waving their hands as they shake their head. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just, that’s just what Head Office said, I thought you’d be a bit, a bit scarier, and, oh, wow, you really do have a demon,” they breathe. “I thought it was just embellishment, wow. Please don’t leave!”

Crowley and Aziraphale trade looks, the one they give each other when something happens that makes them go wow, humans are… something.[3]Only this time, it’s about a very young, embarrassed angel.

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley slouches back into his chair, waving a hand.

“Get on with it,” Crowley drawls. He turns to Saranel and lowers his sunglasses, glaring at them. “What do you want, kid?”

“ _Eep!_ Uh! I just... well…”

Saranel wrings their hands together, looking away from Aziraphale and Crowley. Their eyes track a gaggle of teenagers giggling as they slurp their frozen coffees. Saranel’s fingers twitch, and the crosswalk light turns green for them as they step into it without looking.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “What’s a young guardian angel doing out and about? Where is your ward?”

“Oh! I’m out buying her a birthday present,” Saranel says, inching closer to their table. They fiddle with their jacket zipper. “She thinks I’m a proper human. See! I, I wanted to try being corporeal and it helps her so much to have someone’s hand to hold. Raphael’s really all about whatever helps, you see. But really, I heard stories about you and the humans, and I got permission to try it.”

“You heard about him and didn’t run screaming for the hills?” Crowley asks. “That’s new.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale chides. “Saranel, was it? Why did hearing about me make you want to be properly corporeal?”

Saranel’s cheeks turn red. “I think you’re cool,” they mumble.

A beat, then Crowley begins to cackle. “Cool! Angel, this child said you were _cool_ , Satan help me, _cool_!”

“He is!” Saranel protests. “He stood up to _Gabriel_! Scared him to rights! And Uriel! She’s so insufferably stuck up, ugh, no fun at company picnics. And! He’s been on Earth for six thousand years! He’s super powerful! He was the first angel to be put on Earth! And he gave his sword away, told God he lost it, _and God didn’t protest_! He slapped a huge _come here and die_ label on all of England, for like, centuries and-and-and, just, you should appreciate him more, demon!”

“I like them,” Aziraphale declares, beaming as Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s reminiscent of the time their garbage disposal got clogged.

“You can’t just—you—Aziraphale!” Crowley splutters. “Don’t get won over by petty flattery!”

Aziraphale grins and leans his chin against his hand. “You really should appreciate me more,” he says.

“You’re insufferable, you hear me, I can’t _stand_ you, you rotten excuse for a companion,” Crowley hisses, leaning across the table as he points at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale laughs, then turns to Saranel. “While those things might be true, they’re not that impressive. Most of Heaven tends to view me in more… traitorous colors. It’s only by the Almighty’s grace I’m still even a tentative member of the Host. So forgive me if I’m a bit surprised.”

“Someone who generates this much divine love just by _existing_? Like, everyone at the cafe is super calm, there’s a chain of pay it forwards starting, _and_ everyone’s tipping. Those girls earlier were fighting when they came in. There’s a chain effect of just… good happening, here, because you were having lunch. So what if you thwarted Armageddon and have a demon?”

“Demon here, I have a name,” Crowley says.

Saranel blinks. “I’m sure, but I don’t think I’m allowed to use it.”

“It’s like we’re in the old days, isn’t it?” Crowley mutters.

“And who was I doing all that loving for?” Aziraphale shoots back, rolling his eyes as Crowley’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Anyway, Saranel, my dear, I’m not sure where your point is.”

“I want to be like you,” the angel breathes, green eyes wide and alight with holy fervor. “Can I have your phone number so we can talk some more?”

“Hold on,” Crowley drawls. “Can’t you contact him the angelic way?”

Saranel looks a bit abashed. “I... don’t want Head Office to know,” they mumble, cheeks pink. “See... Heaven tried to recall all guardian angels for a training period, because ‘humans are dangerous’ or... whatever Gabriel had his panties in a wad over.”

A roll of their eyes and a huff. “Raphael threw such a fit I thought she was gonna chunk Michael out of Heaven. Most guardian angels are her purview, you see,” Saranel continues, rubbing their fingers against their tattoo. “So she overrode their training initiative. Thing. Whatever.”

“‘Cause, ah… Most people who have ‘em these days are sick kids,” they whisper. “My kid’s name is Emily. She thinks I’m a cool college kid in a mentor program. When she was little, I was her imaginary friend. When she’s older, she won’t remember me at all, and that’s sad, but she’ll _be_ older.”

They touch their shaved-close hair, face twisting as their lips twist. “I shaved my head when she lost her hair, ‘cause it was all I could do without showing my powers. Her mom did it with me, and so did her little cousin. I let her pick out the color too. It’s the only way people see angels these days, you know? They only recognize them in human shapes… In human gestures, with human love.”

Saranel shakes their head and clears their throat before continuing: “She’ll grow her hair back, and it will be curly like her mom’s, like she’s always wanted. But only because I was there—if Raphael hadn’t won, if I’d been recalled... my Emily... How could she be bad? She wanted to be a unicorn rancher when she was four! But Heaven would have pulled me from her when it was most critical I be there! And I can’t, I—you see, you’re so... brave,” they breathe, eyes alight as they stare unerringly at Aziraphale. “You said _no_ , and God let you. You stood up for them, you saved all of them. The two of you, together, right?”

Crowley stands with a scrape of his chair, lips pressed in a thin line. “Be back.”

Saranel frowns as Crowley saunters away. “What’s wrong with your demon?”

“He’s... being himself,” Aziraphale chuckles. “He’s fond of children.”

“To what, torment?” Saranel asks blankly, brows furrowed.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, he thinks they’re honest, and they tend to ask a blasted amount of questions and annoy everyone doing it. Saranel, sit with me for a moment. Let me tell you something.”

He scoots his chair over, allowing Saranel to move a chair to his side of the table. They sit, hands flat on the table, their shoulders straight.

Aziraphale lays a hand on theirs and sighs. “I’m not good with this sort of thing, so forgive me if I flounder about,” he begins.

“You are very young, and very passionate. People will say that is bad,” he says gently. “I am older and…Well, no less passionate, though in a different way because of it. Just because a red dwarf and a supergiant burn at different brightness does not mean they are not still stars. But don’t burn so bright that you burn out.”

“You mean to shut up so I don’t fall?”

“No! Goodness! I mean that you need to remember that... well. Don’t burn your house while you’re still living in it,” Aziraphale muses.

“I don’t understand,” Saranel says.

Aziraphale pats their hand gently as he thinks. “Humans have problems with religion,” he says finally.

“I have seen wars started in God’s name, and I have seen good men curse the Almighty because of other men. They see Her as a construct, made of the words and actions of men who use Her name in vain, so they turn away. Humans’ ideas of religion conflates it with their meeting places, their churches and temples, places built to invite God in but instead are meeting places without Her Spirit. It’s an old problem,” he sighs.

“Heaven is a bit like that, Saranel. I think you have begun to realize what I did, that there is something Heaven has yet to learn, but you are far younger than I was. You are brave, and I think you are far more wonderful than I.”

Saranel chews on their lip, teeth white against purple paint. “I got so angry with God, I thought I was burning for it,” they say. “Because I don’t understand. I don’t… why does the Plan hurt so much? My child could die, there’s so many who _do_ , guardians who are sent to ease one human from Earth to the afterlife, angels who are thwarted and lose… I’ve had other jobs before, all sorts, but… I’ve only just realized. Heaven might be Heaven, but they don’t see the value in Her creatures…”

“Heaven is a construct,” Aziraphale says. “It’s what we make of it, like religion is what humans make. The Plan is ineffable, so it’s… us, muddling about, doing our best to bring glory to God. We are the beings that make Heaven, like humans make the Earth. It’s our job as angels to do our best to make a Heaven fit for worshiping the Lord and welcome Her creatures.”

“I try, but… it’s just… right now, I feel like I’m _wrong_.”

Aziraphale pats their hand again. “I’m quite familiar with the feeling,” he says. “Just remember that we can’t possibly understand the Plan, but for our place in it. Yours seems to be with your little girl, who has taught you to love humanity. If we’ve learned one thing from the end of the world, it’s that God isn’t quite done here, and that truly loving a thing can alter the very fabric of our nature. And there is nothing shameful in that.”

Saranel nods, wiping under their glasses with the heel of their palm. “Okay,” they whisper.

Aziraphale turns his head, remembering how shameful he felt the first time he shed human tears, allowing the young angel a moment of privacy.

He locks eyes with Crowley inside the shop, who holds up a large milkshake-slash-coffee monstrosity. Aziraphale smiles and holds up a finger, then beckons him forward as Saranel shifts and pulls their hand from under his own.

Crowley makes his way back to the table, dodging other customers and tables. He slides the drink across the table, where Saranel has to catch it to keep it from flying clean off the table.

“Yours,” Crowley says flatly. “Give me your mobile.”

“Ah? What?”

“Mobile. Now.”

Saranel looks to Aziraphale, who chuckles. “Go on, he doesn’t bite.”

“Often,” Crowley says, hand outstretched. “C’mon then, give it here. Right. This is my number, and I’ll give you his after I decide you’re not going to change your mind. He texts in hieroglyphics.”

“Emojis, dear,” Aziraphale says dryly.

“Same thing,” Crowley says, keying in his information. He passes the mobile back to Saranel, scowling as he folds himself back into his chair. “Drink up, I didn’t drug it. Satan, all you young angels are so persnickety.”

Saranel looks between them, from Crowley’s scowl to Aziraphale’s fond skyward look, and laughs. They lean forward and take a long sip of their blended coffee drink, holding eye contact with Crowley.

He snorts and turns away. Saranel straightens and cups their hands around the cup, grinning.

“You really did tame a demon, then,” Saranel says to Aziraphale, eyes sparkling.

“Oh dear, I didn’t tame him. I married him,” Aziraphale laughs, leaning his cheek against his hand, grinning lazily as Crowley splutters indignantly.

“Marry?!” Crowley manages. “When did you decide that?!”

Aziraphale laughs. “Why did you think we were going to the jewelers!”

“Your bloody pocket-watch!”

“Oh, see, that my dear, is what humans call a red herring,” Aziraphale says.

Saranel grins, sliding their chair back as they stand. “It seems it’s time I leave,” they say. “Thank you for talking to me, Aziraphale. And thank you, demon Crowley, for the drink.”

They leave, Aziraphale and Crowley absently bidding them goodbye; they feel the absolute swell of love rise up behind them, the one that called them blocks and blocks away from where they’d been window shopping earlier that morning. It feels like the wind in their wings, like grace, and wrapped up in it is something they find more assured than any promise of Heaven.

One more angel joins their ragtag side that day.[4]

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Yes, the choice was deliberate.[return to text]
> 
> 2 “It’s blue! I don’t understand why you don’t like it!” [return to text]
> 
> 3 They’re on the end of that sort of stare more often than they realize.  
> [return to text]
> 
> 4 And more after that, for Guardian Angels are a tight-knit group of angels.[return to text]


End file.
